


21 Guns

by LesAmisDeLAbaisse



Series: 21 Guns [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Les Misérables, Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, I kind of want to tag major character death but like not MAJOR major so idk i untagged it for now..., M/M, Post-Barricade, but they are all still very much dead, i don't want to spoil anything so i'm going to add characters to the tag as they show up, i mean they're kind of dead when the fic starts, like many canonical character deaths
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-10-01 13:05:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 8,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10190528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LesAmisDeLAbaisse/pseuds/LesAmisDeLAbaisse
Summary: “We surrender,” Grantaire said standing slightly between Enjolras and the guard, and at those words Enjolras could feel the impact of eight bullets slamming evenly into his chest.AU in which Enjolras and Grantaire survive the barricade





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “We surrender,” Grantaire said standing slightly between Enjolras and the guard, and at those words Enjolras could feel the impact of eight bullets slamming evenly into his chest.
> 
> Here's my AU where Enjolras and Grantaire survive the barricade, based off of the song 21 Guns.
> 
> I hope you like it!

_Do you know what’s worth fighting for?_

_When it’s not worth dying for?_

 

Enjolras could feel the warmth emanating from the open window—could see the sun, that had just started rising over his city, painting his shadow sprawled out across the floor like a dead body. He shivered and clutched the blood-stained flag in his hands tighter before snapping his head up to the armed men standing before him, a fire still burning in his eyes that could rival the sun behind him.

Enjolras noticed their leader scanning his face, biting his lip, his brows scrunched together in concentration. Something seemed familiar about this man—he felt sure he knew that mustache and the way this man’s eyes searched his. It wasn’t until the guard looked away, examining the floor boards as he lowered his gun, that Enjolras recognized him. They had gone to school together—had worked together, and talked together, and laughed together, and—

“Surrender.”

“What,” Enjolras asked, taking half a step back, raising his eyebrows, wondering if that was more of a demand or a request.

The guard gave him a sad look, saying “if you surrender we will spare you, so I ask you one last time: will you surrender?” The please was left unspoken, but both men heard it.

Enjolras could still see the resigned look in Courf’s blood splattered face. He could see Combeferre—choking back tears—reaching out to their friend. He could feel Joly grabbing his hand to pull him up the stairs. He could feel the floor beneath him shudder with bullets before the gentle thud of bodies. No, he would not surrender. How could he? There was nothing left for him. Enjolras shook his head and raised his hand, still clinging to their flag—all that was left of his friends and their dream, toward the ceiling as he muttered, “shoot me.”

The guards raise their weapons together, pointing towards a heart that kept beating faster and faster.

 _This is it_ , Enjolras thought as he took a deep breath and stood as tall as he could, refusing to break eye contact. Maybe in the future their cause would still be remembered—his friends’ deaths would still be remembered. Maybe that would be worth fighting and dying for.

_“Wait”_

Something stirred behind the guardsmen—a person—rising slowly, stumbling out of the shadows and into the light.

“R,” Enjolras breathed, taking in the sight of the cynic walking into the sunlight before him. Unsure if he wanted to laugh or cry, Enjolras chose to let a small smile play across his lips, but was still unable to keep his vision from beginning to blur as his eyebrows tried to knit themselves together. Grantaire swayed slightly as he walked past the guards, his stupid shadowy hair ruffled and sticking out at all sides, his face flushed red, stinking of wine—and Enjolras had never seen anyone look more like a god than Grantaire did in that moment, his eyes transfixed on Enjolras’s.

“We surrender,” Grantaire said standing slightly between Enjolras and the guard, and at those words Enjolras could feel the impact of eight bullets slamming evenly into his chest.

He could numbly feel R lowering his hand, forcing him to release the flag as it fluttered to the floor covered in blood, just as his friends had moments ago. He supposed Grantaire was saying something else to the men in front of them, but all Enj could focus on was the feeling of R gripping his hand and the flag laying at their feet. The floor started to tremble slightly, and Enjolras squeezed Grantaire’s hand tighter before realizing it was only the pads of the national guard turning away from the only remaining boys of Les Amis de L’ABC. He only looked away from the flag when R cupped the younger boy’s face in his hand, his thumb wiping away drops of blood.

Once they were alone, Grantaire pulled Enjolras into his arms, allowing the blond to tuck his head under R’s chin and bury his face in R’s tattered green vest, clinging to the fabric stained with a permanent smell of wine. They were all dead. They were all dead— _and it was all his fault._ He had failed them.

“It’s not worth dying for. It won’t bring them back and it won’t do anyone else any good,” R muttered over and over, rubbing circles into Enjolras’s back as his calm and fearless leader broke down, shaking with each sob. “It’s not worth dying for.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No. He couldn’t break down now; Enjolras needed him to be the emotionless, uncaring cynic he had always portrayed himself as. But the tears wouldn’t stop, because no matter what he had insisted, Grantaire had always believed in his friends.

_Does it take your breath away?_

_And you feel yourself suffocating._

 

“Come on Apollo," he muttered, keeping his eyes down as he drifted toward the door. "Apollo? Enjolras…” Grantaire turned to see Enjolras, who had only managed to take eight steps from the window, kneeling beside the two red-painted bodies lying side by side. He watched the Enjolras’s hand carefully readjust Combeferre’s glasses before brushing away the stray strands of Courfeyrac’s curls. Slowly, Enjolras leaned down to kiss both of their foreheads, muttering something R couldn’t hear while leaving tear drops on their faces.

Enjolras got to his feet, forcing himself to hold his head high while meeting Grantaire’s eyes, each releasing a breath they didn’t know they had been holding. Neither boy said anything as Enjolras slipped his hand into Grantaire’s, or as the cynic squeezed Apollo’s hand; both just turned toward the door, taking careful, exhausting steps—taking all their energy to keep putting one foot in front of the other. It wasn’t until he saw Joly’s body that Grantaire dropped Enjolras’s hand—running toward one of his best friends, dropping to his knees with a thud as he grabbed Joly’s hand.

Joly’s hands had always been cold in life, but it had never felt like this. Grantaire couldn’t breathe. It was as if the cold of Joly had submerged him into a river flowing with chunks of ice, as the freezing water jerked him about, dragging him under the waves and leaving him gasping for breath as tears clouded his sight.

 _No. He couldn’t break down now; Enjolras needed him to be the emotionless, uncaring cynic he had always portrayed himself as._ But the tears wouldn’t stop, because no matter what he had insisted, Grantaire had always believed in his friends—they were the only things he ever let himself believe in, because in the back of that smoke-filled cafe, sitting at a table in the corner covered in wine stains, he had met friends so full of a life Grantaire never thought could be killed.

Next thing the cynic knew, Enjolras was kneeling beside him, draping a red jacket across Joly like a blanket, whispering, “there. Joly always said coats are what protect us from getting colds.”

R let out half a laugh, half a whimper, recalling the image of tiny Joly, one hand on his cane and the other pointedly placed on his hip, lecturing Grantaire about the importance of appropriate choice in clothing after R had walked out into his second snow storm of the week, completely drunk, without a jacket to keep him from freezing.

_And he still couldn’t breathe._

R let Enjolras pull him away, only hearing Apollo’s voice telling him to breathe when the smaller boy had taken R’s hand, placing it over his heart, and instructing Grantaire to follow his breathing pattern. He began to focus on Enjolras’s slow, steady breaths and how the fabric on Enjolras’s shirt felt like silk against his palm pressed against it—trying to ignore the dampness he felt on his fingers which he knew was the blood splattered across Enjolras’s shirt, the way Enjolras’s heart was beating faster than normal as if it were trying to escape from its rib cage, or the way Enjolras’s eyes were scanning his, only a few inches away from his own face.

After about a minute of this, once Grantaire had mostly regained control of his breathing, Enjolras asked him, “you feeling better?”

R appreciated that he didn’t ask _are you good_ or _are you all right_ because they both knew those were the farthest things from where they were now. Grantaire shrugged and tried for a sad smile, which looked more like a grimace as his eyes scrunched to keep the tears from falling, mumbling, “you know, I always feel like I can’t breathe when I’m around you, Apollo—only that’s usually because of you. And it’s usually not a bad thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras watched Grantaire stick his head out the door—the cynic raising his hand up to block out the rising sun, attempting to pass his blinking off as merely a result of the light, but the hard swallow and deep breath that followed suggested otherwise. He turned back to Enjolras, who was leaning against the wall beside the door while trying to keep his focus on R, and away from the remains of the room in front of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Grantaire is actually from a pretty wealthy family, but for this fic to work I need you all to accept some slight deviations from canon like this... you'll see why later...

_Does the pain weigh out the pride?_

_And you look for a place to hide._

 

Enjolras watched Grantaire stick his head out the door—the cynic raising his hand up to block out the rising sun, attempting to pass his blinking off as merely a result of the light, but the hard swallow and deep breath that followed suggested otherwise. He turned back to Enjolras, who was leaning against the wall beside the door while trying to keep his focus on R, and away from the remains of the room in front of him.

“The coast is clear, so what’s the plan” Grantaire asked, and Enj could tell he was trying to keep his voice from cracking.

“Well,” Enjolras began, taking a deep breath, his hands fidgeting with the sleeves of what was his white button-down, “we need to lay low for a while, but who knows if my parents will even acknowledge me as their son after this, let alone let me crash there--”

“You could hide at my place.”

“What?” He was slightly taken aback by the offer, thinking for sure that after today, Grantaire would--

“I mean,” Grantaire began, becoming increasingly more interested in the blood stains on his shoes as he began fumbling over his words, “if you don’t want to that’s fine, but I just—I guess I thought that if you wanted, you know, you could stay with me. It’s a smaller apartment, but it’s pretty out of the way so I don’t think there would be too much of a danger of you being noticed—you know, after all of this,” he said gesturing with both his arms to the room and the barricade just outside the door, “and if you needed I have food and clothing, which might be a bit big on you, but I guess that’s still better than being covered in blood, and,” R trailed off, biting his lower lip and rubbing his crooked nose with a rough, scar-covered hand to stop it from running.

Enjolras tried to smile as he took Grantaire’s other hand. “I think it would be perfect. Thank you.”

* * *

 

He watched R click the lock on the door shut, echoing around them in the tiny apartment.

“I—here have a seat,” Grantaire said, gesturing to his bed—one of the only places to sit in the tiny apartment.

Enjolras tried to take in R’s home—the tiny table with one lonely chair beside it, the dresser leaning along the same wall as the bed he was sitting on, what could probably be considered a kitchen area, piles upon piles of books forming miniature barricades across the room—but everything began to blur again as Enjolras blushed, angrily whipping tears away by pressing the palm of his hand into each eye. He tried to chide himself for crying in front of Grantaire again—it wasn’t just that he should be too proud to break down this badly again in only an hour or two, but that he was supposed to be the one comforting Grantaire. That was who he had always been; Enjolras had always been the strong one who was always there with a shoulder to cry on.

_But it hurt so bad._

_And it was all his fault. All that blood was on his shoulders._ Enjolras hugged his arms to his chest, making a strangled noise as he gasped for breath through the tears.

The bed beside him sagged, and a strong arm wrapped around Enjolras and pulled him tight. Enj could feel R shaking beside him, felt the tear drops landing on his head and arms as he sunk into Grantaire’s embrace as they both just sat there, echoing each other’s sobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for read (you guys rock!)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you really believe all of this?” Enj asked him in a soft voice, those freezing fire-filled blue eyes scanning his face.  
> Grantaire forced himself to turn away from his face and focus on the scrawled cursive before him—the sharp, drunken strokes that cut across the page—scanning the page Enjolras was pointing to.

Did someone break your heart inside?

You’re in ruins.

 

He couldn’t help but letting a small smile cross his face, lying beside Enjolras on his bed, playing with that sun colored hair as Apollo flipped through one of R’s notebooks filled with scribbled writing. He watched Enjolras, wearing a shirt slightly too big for him as the sleeves covered his hands and dragged across the dried ink scribbled across the page, watched Enjolras bite his lip, eyebrows frowning slightly—the way they always did when he was concentrating on something important.

_Something important._

Grantaire felt a flash of pride at this; his writing had to be worthy enough to be ranked among documents on the French Revolution and long dead philosophers droning on about the rights of citizens to earn that look—that amount of concentration in those ice blue eyes that burned with a fire that would have been as red as Enj’s favorite color. He was so lost in thought that he almost didn’t register Enjolras propping himself up on his elbow to turn around and look Grantaire in the face.

“Do you really believe all of this?” Enj asked him in a soft voice, those freezing fire-filled blue eyes scanning his face.

Grantaire forced himself to turn away from his face and focus on the scrawled cursive before him—the sharp, drunken strokes that cut across the page—scanning the page Enjolras was pointing to.

_Can it be you fear to die?_

_Will the world remember you_

_When you fall?_

_Can it be your death_

_Means nothing at all?_

_Is your life just one more lie?_

His eyes flicked onto the next page as he kept reading, the poems he couldn’t remember writing that must have been jotted down during another drunken episode.  Part of him wanted to cringe as they got darker and darker, but they felt so familiar—as if his writing was reaching out of the page to hold his hand. 

Suddenly becoming aware that the glorious Apollo was still laying there with the sun reflecting of his glowing blond hair and casting his face into the shadows, still expecting an answer, Grantaire shrugged and hummed under his breath, refusing to look back at Enjolras.

“ _Grantaire.”_

“It’s true.  Life, death, it means nothing, so we might as well say and do what we want because it’s all pointless anyway.”  He took a deep breath, still refusing to meet those fiery blue eyes, biting his lip before continuing, “Life means nothing so we might as well be honest and say what we want to say: Enjolras, I love you.  You already know how I feel, so I want to know about you.”

R’s heart sank at Enjolras’s surprised look as the usually charismatic, flawless speaker began blushing as red as his signature jacket, tripping over his words, stumbling, “Grantaire, I-I—I’m sorry but, I just—I, now, and--”

“No, it’s fine,” Grantaire snapped as he let out a barking laugh, practically shoving Enjolras off of him as he stood up and headed for the apartment door.  “Why would you love me—why would anyone choose to love me.”

“No, Grantaire, wait, I-” Enjolras pleaded from behind him.

“I need to get to work,” Grantaire said, cutting Enjolras off.  “Someone needs to make enough money to keep us both alive.”  He slammed the door behind him before the tears stared streaming down his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looking around at their innocent faces staring up at him, filled with hope and so much still to live for, Enjolras wanted to scream at them all to surrender. He wanted to tell them all to go home. He wanted to watch Combeferre push his glasses up against his nose after giving his input in a debate, listen to Jehan play the flute at random meetings when the room fell quiet and there was nothing left to say, hear the gentle clack of Joly’s cane or the crashes of Bossuet bumping into another table. He wanted to see them all at that table in the back corner of the Musain, chatting drunkenly while he watched their faces turn redder as the conversations got louder. He wanted to scream at them all to surrender, because he knew how it would end.

One, twenty-one guns,

Lay down your arms,

Give up the fight.

He was there, standing on top of a barricade of rubbish and old furniture and— _no, just focus on the people around you, and don’t look down to see what you’re standing on._ There were Les Amis, standing before him, fumbling with guns in their hands as if they had never even seen one before, let alone held one. They were just school boys, staring at the flag waving in his hand.

A voice carried over the barricade: “You have no chance— No chance at all. Why throw your life away?”

Looking around at their innocent faces staring up at him, filled with hope and so much still to live for, Enjolras wanted to scream at them all to surrender. He wanted to tell them all to go home. He wanted to watch Combeferre push his glasses up against his nose after giving his input in a debate, listen to Jehan play the flute at random meetings when the room fell quiet and there was nothing left to say, hear the gentle clack of Joly’s cane or the crashes of Bossuet bumping into another table. He wanted to see them all at that table in the back corner of the Musain, chatting drunkenly while he watched their faces turn redder as the conversations got louder. He wanted to scream at them all to surrender, because he knew how it would end.

But he couldn’t.

So he stayed there, frozen in place as they climbed the barricade one by one starting with little Jean Prouvoir, and, as each reached the crest, they fell slowly at his feet at the sound of guns while Enjolras’s hands got redder and redder.

The last to make the treacherous climb to his side was Grantaire, who only shook his head as he starred Enjolras in the eye, whispering, “You know we only did this all for you, Apollo”— _God, Enjolras hated that name_ —“It’s all your fault,” as R slipped his hand into Enjolras’s and turned him around to face out toward the guns before them.

* * *

 

He woke up sweating, his lungs hurting as he gasped for breath, leaving his hands clutching at the blanket across him. That old, musty blanket felt like silk against his skin, but he could still feel that it was filled with holes.

_Filled with holes._

He let out a choked sob, trying to throw it as far away from him as possible, watching it flutter to the ground, but all he saw was their flag, falling slowly— _just like they had._

He hugged his knees to his chest for support, but it did nothing to stop the sobs that echoed around the empty room.

He was all alone.

He was alone. For the rest of his life he would be alone. All because he had killed them.

_It’s all your fault. Even R said it._

Pulling his head into his chest, shaking hands covering his ears, he tried to ignore the voices--the screams and pleas that his mind kept replaying.

_It’s all your fault._


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But it’s only been a week since…” Enjolras trailed off, waving a hand before him in the air, as if that could do a justice to everything that had happened, although, R supposed, words wouldn’t have been able to do much better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kind of short, but I needed to cut it off there because the next one is a little longer... And also really heart breaking... so have fun with that!

_One, twenty-one guns,_

_Throw up your arms into the sky._

_You and I._

 

Grantaire stumbled into his apartment, fumbling with the keys in his hand, only to find Enjolras asleep at the table again, his blond hair sprawled across his face and the book he had been reading. He tried to tip-toe into the apartment, but that was often easier to do when he wasn’t wasted. Grantaire swore under his breath as he stubbed his toe on one of the posts of bed, cringing as Enjolras bolted upright, throwing his arms up into a fighting position, his normally blue eyes stained red as they scanned the room, coming to a rest on Grantaire.

“Oh, it’s just you,” he muttered, lowering his head and hands.

“ _Thanks,_ ” Grantaire huffed, beginning to kick off his shoes. “Good news: I got you a job.”

Enjolras’s head shot up again. “Wait, already? Who--”

“Madame Houcheloup,” he said with a sad smile as he collapsed down onto the bed, remembering the way she had pulled him into a hug upon seeing him, almost crying upon learning that Enjolras was also alive. “Said she could use a little help at the Musain, although I suspect that might just be so she can hire you. You know, to look after you, the way she always used to look after us--” his voice cracked, leaving dead air between them.

“Working at the Musain,” Enjolras whispered, his hands clutching the back of the chair in front of him. “But it’s only been a week since…” Enjolras trailed off, waving a hand before him in the air, as if that could do a justice to everything that had happened, although, R supposed, words wouldn’t have been able to do much better.

Grantaire shrugged. “People have stopped talking about it—have started continuing on with their daily lives. It’s almost like it never happened.”

Enjolras sank bitterly back into the chair with a far off look in his eyes. “So much for becoming historic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think you can start piecing together why I needed Grantaire to be fairly poor for the next bit to work... Because heartbreak--that's why...  
> Anyway, thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking a deep breath, Enjolras forced himself to straighten-up and hold his head high before entering the familiar haunt of his friends, trying not to think about the last time he saw some of them in there.

_When you’re at the end of the road,_

_And you’ve lost all sense of control,_

 

Enjolras couldn’t bring himself to pick his head up and look people in the eye, just glaring down at his shoes, as he trudged through the streets. Every friendly smile seemed to mock him, worn by factories workers who said they would join in at the barricades but never came, as his ears filled with the cheerful chatter of the citizens who had shut their doors on the cries of his friends’ deaths. Maybe it was the bricks beneath, but every puddle was bright red.

He slowed as the gold faded lettering came into view. Taking a deep breath, Enjolras forced himself to straighten-up and hold his head high before entering the familiar haunt of his friends, trying not to think about the last time he saw some of them in there. 

* * *

 

He mostly kept his head down as he cleared the tables, trying to give a fake smile every time he caught Madame Houcheloup staring over at him, the hair falling out of her bun framing those eyes that kept scanning him with a softened scowl.

Of course she would be trying to help him. When hadn’t she? But he didn’t need it—didn’t deserve it—knowing too well what happened last time.

Keeping his distance from their usual table, Enjolras tried to concentrate on clearing the bottles before him, trying to ignore every face he saw that had turned away from his dying friends.

There was a soldier sitting along one of the walls that he couldn't go near without flinching, his hands clenching into fists as his brain struggled to resist the overwhelming urge to punch him in the face. He could see in that pristine uniform, spotlighted against a backdrop of ragged clothing and starving faces, the very embodiment of they oppression too many men had given their lives to end with no avail. For the first time in a week, Enjolras felt that fire in his stomach return--the anger against a government that had abandoned its people to just another day nearer to dying. Even when the man left, Enjolras couldn't lose that feeling, his stomach churning with anger and fear, filled with spiders trying to crawl up his throat, weaving webs along the way to stop his breathing.

 _Head down, and focus on the task at hand,_ he chided himself, picking up empty bottles, sparkling in the candle light like stars.  Maybe this was why Grantaire would always compare the candles to starlight, he thought, smiling for the first time in too long. Grantaire, who's eyes always seemed to match those bright candles hiding stars inside them, who could never shut up from the back-corner, with ideas and counter-arguments that were actually infuriatingly brilliant, who-

 _Who probably hates me,_ Enjolras thought, his face burning. _Stop thinking about him--stop thinking about them all before you do something stupid._

But he couldn’t help it—as if something was calling to him from that corner.

He could almost see them, holding candles in their hands, one by one extinguishing those stars, swirling through the cloud of smoke—smoke that looked too much like clouds of smoke spiraling from guns. Booming laughs that sounded too much like canons. Wine spills on the floor, which looked too familiar. It felt like his body was being pulled between two worlds—the world of the living and the ghosts of his memory.

_And he couldn’t breathe._

The bottles in his hand fell to the floor with a shatter like cannon fire, leaving Enjolras drenched in red again, his face deathly pale. Someone was pulling him aside, asking if he was ok, but he couldn’t see, couldn’t answer. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered that someone was telling him to go home—only later would he be able to identify the voice was Madame Houcheloup.

Enjolras nodded, knowing he had to get out of there before the darkness overwhelmed him and his chest was bound tighter and tighter until it hurt too much to breathe. He couldn’t break down—not in front of the people who had abandoned his friends.  They wouldn't get that satisfaction.

He sprinted home, barreling through crowds and carriages and cows, trying to get behind walls before the tears started coming. Finally reaching his destination, Enjolras fumbled with the key before slamming the door open, entering the room and collapsing to the floor, sobs shaking his entire body as he gasped for a breath he couldn’t seem to catch. At least he was home—but no this wasn’t home. This was Grantaire’s place. He didn’t have a home anymore—his homes all died on the barricades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay pain!  
> Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How does one heal marble, he wondered. How does one heal the ones made of stone that broke under one too many beatings?

_And your thoughts have taken their toll,_

_When your mind breaks the spirit of your soul._

 

Grantaire opened the door, his eyes half closed from exhaustion, and, numb, he flung himself down onto the bed. At least he had an hour or so to pull himself back together before Enjolras returned from work at the Musain.

At the sound of a _clink_ , his eyes shot open, leaping to his feet, putting himself into his best fighting stance as he mentally began searching for the nearest object to use as a weapon. As his eyes fell upon Enjolras, surrounded by empty bottles, his face softened and R dropped his fists.

“I guess we both need to get used to living with someone else, or one of us is going to end up with a black eye one of these days," he tried to joke, only too aware of how tired and hollow his voice sounded even in his own ears. "You’re back early,” R prompted again, slowly moving toward the table, his eyes focused only on Enjolras. "Did the mighty Apollo scare away all of the customers or something?" His laugh died in his throat as Enjolras took another swig of wine, keeping his eyes focused only on the table in front of him.

Enj traced the opening of the bottle with his thumb, dragging the drips of blood red wine in circles in his wake, still refusing to look up as Grantaire sat down beside him. After a few moments, when he finally did speak, it was with a hoarse and cracking whisper, saying, “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t—I-I kept seeing them--”

Grantaire couldn’t help but notice how red those normally burning blue eyes were—guessing that very little of that color was due to the wine. R reached out his hand, plucked Enjolras’s from the bottle it was holding, whose usual marble facade was cracked open and scarred.

 _How does one heal marble_ , he wondered. _How does one heal the ones made of stone that broke under one too many beatings?_

Sniffling and wiping his nose on his sleeve, Enjolras barked a cold laugh, asking, “so, have you come back to keep me from drinking the rest of your wine?”

Grantaire hated seeing Enjolras like this--his voice deflated, but with a biting edge pointed only at himself, matching Enjolras's eyes, which had traded their usual passion away in the hopes of forgetting, leaving them lifeless and hating. He hated seeing how empty it left the one person in his life who had always fought back.

But, how many times had the roles been reversed? How many times had Enjolras been the one to watch his drunken spells stained with cynicism? Maybe this was the reason for Enjolras's constant disdane--the constant stares.

No, Grantaire didn't want to think about that--he'd much rather forget and numb the pain. “Actually, I’m here to drink with you,” he said raising the bottle Enjolras had been drinking from into the air as a cheers before downing the rest of it. “To days gone by.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hanks for reading and I wanna say that I really appreciate those who left comments or kudos (you guys rock!)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His vision was hazy with drink as he raised his head, awoken by a deathly silence that filled the room and screamed into his ears. Where was he? Grantaire pressed the palm of his hand onto his eyelids, trying to wake himself up more and trying to place what was happening, cursing himself for once again being too drunk to function. He could almost hear Enjolras telling him, “R, you’re a good for nothing fool and a drunkard. You don’t believe in anything.”

_Your faith walks on broken glass,_

 

His vision was hazy with drink as he raised his head, awoken by a deathly silence that filled the room and screamed into his ears. Where was he? Grantaire pressed the palm of his hand onto his eyelids, trying to wake himself up more and trying to place what was happening, cursing himself for once again being too drunk to function. He could almost hear Enjolras telling him, “R, you’re a good for nothing fool and a drunkard. You don’t believe in anything.”

He was slowly beginning to place the walls in the back room of the Musain, which now only contained a few overturned tables and a couple of chairs, when he heard a soft, but defiant voice cut through the silence: “shoot me.”

He turned to see his Apollo illuminated by the rising sun from the window behind him, his blond hair a glowing halo. He had to say something—had to do something—but his mind and body were still too slow, aching from his hangover. All he could do was watch eight bullets piecing Enjolras, watch red flowers growing from his wounds—focusing on the one blooming from his heart—as the fearless Apollo toppled over, his leg catching on the window frame as he fell, arms spread like a cross as they continued to cling to a flag as red and filled with holes as he was.

* * *

 

Grantaire woke up from his nightmare with tears streaming down his face, hugging a sleeping Enjolras closer to his side. This was the worst one yet; at least in the others he had woken up in time to stand by Enjolras’s side when they died together holding hands. But this was worse, and he had been too drunk to do anything—too drunk to show Enjolras that somewhere along the way the cynic had gained a little faith, so he had died just like the rest of them--believing Grantaire had abandoned them and the cause. They had all died believing that he didn't believe in anything--that he was incapable of believing in anything.

“I believe in you,” Grantaire breathed into the blond curls beside him. “I believe in you,” he repeated, wine still on his breath, brushing the hairs from Enjolras’s face, unable to keep himself from thinking just how fragile Enjolras looked in sleep—or just how closely his sleep resembled the dead Enjoras of Grantaire’s dream.

“I swear I’ll be there for you,” Grantaire whispered, gently pulling Enjolras’s head toward his chest and resting his own head on top of Apollo’s. “I swear I’ll be there, even when you feel like everything is shattering around you. And I swear I’ll be sober enough to protect you.” He began to drift off, back into his dreams and nightmares.

“I believe in you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading guys!!! (Also prepare for even worse heartbreak in the next chapter... I'm so sorry...)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Of course I know, now stop mocking me,” Enjolras shouted. “Don’t you think I know that if I had been a god—hell, if I’d even been just a little bit smarter, or stronger, or better—they would all still be here. And I don’t need you to keep reminding me it’s all my fault.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the heartbreak I promised... I'm so sorry (not really, but...)

_And the hangover doesn’t pass._

 

Head gently pounding, Grantaire rolled over and could see the sun shining through his still closed eyelids. _No one loves the light like a blind man_ , he would always say. Lying on his bed, letting the warmth of the sun, it was his favorite part of his day—lying in that land between sleep and awake, where consciousness had control but all the pain seemed numb, as if it wasn’t aware that he was awake yet.

Actually opening his eyes and starting his day with a pounding headache that worsened every time someone moved or the sun shone too bright—that was a different story.

He sat up, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as he doubled over with pain. “Morning Apollo,” he muttered into his hands as he heard a chair scrape against the wooden floor.

“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras snapped back at him, and Grantaire made a mental note that even Enjolras could get a hangover.

“Why?” R asked with a half smile, needing something to focus on other than the state he was in, knowing full well he was prompting one of their infamous _heated debates_ , as Enjolras would call them. “You don’t think it suits-”

“ _Because I’m not a god,_ ” Enjolras said, voice rising and echoing across the room.

 _Just like old times,_ he thought with a smile. “No really,” Grantaire goaded, voice overflowing with its usual sarcasm as he sat there refusing to move and look up at Enjolras in attempt to ease the pain of his headache. “I had no idea you weren’t actually the Greek deity driving the sun across the sky every day.”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Enjolras’s voice cracked.

 _Shit._ Grantaire looked up to see him gripping the table in front of him as tight as he could, his knuckles almost as pale as his face. “Enj, you--”

“Of course I know, now stop mocking me,” Enjolras shouted, toppling the chair behind him as he stood up and began pacing, all red anger and flame, which took a long time to grow, but given the right conditions could easily become a forest fire. Enj waved his arms around as he spoke, his hands constantly returning to the top of his head to grab a hold of his hair, as if he was about to start ripping it out, his face getting redder and redder with each word he shouted. “Don’t you think I know that if I had been a god—hell, if I’d even been just a little bit smarter, or stronger, or better—they would all still be here. And I don’t need you to keep reminding me it’s all my fault.”

Grantaire knew he should have comforted Enjolras—should have told him it would get better because maybe everyone had a little blood on their hands. His brain told him that Enjolras didn’t need another argument, especially in the state they were both in.

But when it came to Enjolras, why would he ever listened to his brain, especially while hungover, when his heart and emotions were so much quicker.

“Yeah, because you’re the only person on that barricade how could think for himself,” he retorted, finally fed up with an Enjolras who kept trying to take all of the blame while R could still see so much of it on his own hands. “You said it yourself—you’re not the leader. Or are you the one who thinks so highly of himself that he thinks they all died for him like the god he sees in his own damn reflection.”

He immediately regretted it as soon as the words were out of his mouth, but if Enjolras was hurt by that punch, he didn’t show it, only taking a quick deep breath, and saying, “Well, at least I fought beside them and didn’t abandon us when we needed you.”

His stomach dropped as he rose, crossing the floor in a heartbeat until he was standing over Enjolras, jabbing a finger into his chest, waiting for the blond to backdown. “Who drove me away from the barricade— _who_?”

But Enjolras held his ground and turned his face up towards Grantaire’s, firing back, “You and I know damn well that you wouldn’t have survived that drunk. _I_ wasn’t the one playing the drunkard again.”

“Playing the drunkard?” R took a step back, shaking his head at Enjolras. “I wanted to stand beside you on that barricade, but I’m sorry I didn’t fancy being sober while watching you lead our friends to certain death.”

He grabbed R by the shoulder, forcing him to turn towards him. “It wasn’t certain death. We had a chance.”

“What chance,” Grantaire asked, incredulous, jerking his arm from Enjolras’s grasp. “When have the people ever stood a chance? When have they ever risen when history needed them before it was too late?”

“Ugh,” Enjolras rolled his eyes with exasperated, throwing his head back and his hands into the air. “Just because your cynicism has made you blind to-”

“I might be the blind man here, but even I could see that you were killing our friends,” R shouted over Enjolras, channeling every bit of resentment he had—for Enjolras, for himself, for everyone who murdered his friends, and for everyone who merely stood to the side and watched—he channeled all of it into his words. “Even I knew we were Icarus, about to fall because we were flying too close to the sun—to the mighty Apollo.”

Instantly the fiery red anger, the energetic anger Enjolras must have learned from years of friendship with Courf, was replaced with a blue icy rage. “So that’s why I’m Apollo,” Enjolras whispered. “Because I drown everyone who comes near me--everyone I dare to love.” He let go of a deep breath and threw on the tattered brown coat Grantaire had given him.

“Wait, where are you going,” R asked nervously, his hands immediately fidgeting with each other, ringing them in an attempt to calm himself down, recognizing the cold, quiet, almost logical, rage that Enjolras must have learned from Ferre—the type of anger that terrified him the way screams and shouting couldn’t.

“I’m leaving, before I drown you too,” he whispered in a matter-of-fact tone, dropping his key down onto the table. “Have a nice life, Icarus,” Enjolras muttered as he pivoted toward the door.

R groaned, burying his face in his hands as the door slammed shut, cursing himself for trying to pick a fight—for trying to get just one thing in his life back to normal—for not being able to keep his mouth shut for once in his life.

He threw himself back onto his bed, hoping to return to those first few moments of bliss before opening his eyes, but the sun had gone, taking the warmth and light along with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie I really liked writing this chapter and I'm really excited about the next chapter because yes there's the continuation of heartbreak, but mostly we're going to see another familiar face!!! I won't say who but ahhhhh!!!!   
> Anyway...   
> Thanks for reading!


	11. Chapter11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We were never meant to last, he thought, feeling their ghosts calling to him from the swirling foam below.
> 
> “Careful,” called a voice behind him, and Enjolras jumped as he snapped around and came face to face with an older man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, there is a brief one sentence reference to Javert's suicide (it is a canon thing, but like just heads up that I reference that).  
> But also, yay another familiar face! (Guess who?)  
> Enjoy

_Nothing's ever built to last._

 

The tricolor cockade in he held in his hand looked like the flowers Jehan used to give him, placing them in his hands or his hair or his jacket, the way they did for all the other Amis. But this felt heavier than any flower Enjolras had ever held—maybe because most flowers weren’t made up of cloth and thread and the dreams of dead friends. He clenched his hand into a fist, crushing the cockade, as he starred out into the churning, foaming water creating white spectrum-like waves which refused to reflect the black stars hanging in the sky above him.

Enjolras pulled back his arm and chucked the rosette over the edge of the bridge, leaning over the railing to watch its slow decent into the storming water below, only illuminated by the stars of the lampposts and the city surrounding him.

 _We were never meant to last,_ he thought, feeling their ghosts calling to him from the swirling foam below.

“Careful,” called a voice behind him, and Enjolras jumped as he snapped around and came face to face with an older man. “There was a man who fell from this bridge a little over a week ago,” he said, approaching Enjolras as he slowly drifted forward. “Although, I don’t know that fell is the right word,” he sighed, only continuing on with a tired voice when Enjolras gave him a puzzled look. “I knew him. He wasn’t a friend—in fact far from it—but I’d know him most of my life, and I had hoped he would have forgiven himself the way I forgave him.” The man moved to stand beside Enjolras on the bridge looking up into the starless sky. “I wish he would have continued his story, but when your entire life view is in question, it’s not easy starting a new life.” The man trailed off, and something in his voice told Enjolras that he had learned the hard way how to start a new life view.

They stood side by side like that for a few minutes in a comfortable silence, just watching the clouds moving across the sky above them, each content simply to have a companion there beside him. 

"You were on the barricade," the man stated, and Enjolras froze, clutching the edge of the bridge, trying to place why this man's face looked so familiar--and more importantly if he was a soldier come to finally kill him like all of his other friends.

The man's next question caught him off-guard, asking him, “are you safe? Do you have enough money?”

Enjolras almost started laughing at the absurdity of the question and look of fatherly concern that had overcome the man. It felt nice to have someone concerned about his well being again, even if that someone was a stranger who's face he couldn't place.

 _But that was a good question._ Did _he have any money?_

He put his hand into his jacket pocket—R’s jacket pocket, he thought with a twinge of guilt—searching for money when his hand brushed against a small moleskine.

He removed the book filled with R’s writing, showing the man. “No but I have this,” he laughed, realizing his own stupidity to not bring what little scraps of money he had when leaving Grantaire’s place.

“Do you mind,” the man asked, reaching forward to indicated the notebook Enjolras was holding.

Enjolras just shrugged, allowing the man to flip through the notebook, smiling at the comfort of just looking at Grantaire’s harsh and jagged loops and scribbles, not even bothering to read what it actually said, as the stranger skimmed through it.

 _Shit_ , he swore at himself, wondering if R would have minded him letting this man read his writing. Sure R had let him read it, but that was different and meant Grantaire trusted him--or at least Enjolras hoped it did.

“This is quite good,” the man said, interrupting Enjolras's thoughts, as he handed back the tattered book to Enjolras after a few minutes, tapping the page it was opened to. “You should consider turning this into a story.”

_A group which barely missed becoming historic._

Enjolras smiled as he skimmed through the rest of the notes on the page, heart both fluttering and falling at the descriptions of his friends, allowing himself to be reminded of why they were fighting in the first place. It was when he came across the description of himself that he blushed, stammering out, “I-I didn’t write this.”

“So someone else survived,” he concluded, raising his eyebrow in question, a half smile on his face.

Enjolras nodded, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “He thinks it’s all my fault,” Enjolras whispered, voice cracking. “Everything that went wrong that day—I should have been better, or, I don’t know,” he trailed off, starring out from the bridge as he blinked tears away.

The man frowned, concerned eyes scanning Enjolras. “Is that what he thinks, or what _you_ think.”

Enjolras didn’t respond, just kept staring straight ahead, not sure which answer terrified him more.

“Go back to him. You’d be surprised at the forgiveness humans are capable of,” the man whispered, placing a hand on Enjolras’s shoulder with a sympathetic smile. “No one deserves to go through this world alone.”

Enjolras nodded, letting the words sink in for a few minutes before calling after the man who had already started walking away, “And what are you going to do?”

“What I’ve always done,” he called over his shoulder, “run away and hide. It’s not a habit I’d recommend getting into, but it’s a hard one to break.”

It wasn’t until after the man had disappeared from sight that Enjolras recognized him as the second volunteer from the barricade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, I'm totally pulling a Victor Hugo of "who could this stranger be that is obviously not Valjean" as everyone knows it's Valjean...  
> Also, who's keeping note of Grantaire's writing (hint, hint)...  
> Anyway, I hope you liked it and please leave comments (I love screaming about things with people)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn’t want a drink, or at least that’s what he tried to tell himself, but he needed to try and find her—just to see her—so R walked in, scanning the crowd of drunks, searching for her face. Gliding gracefully over spilled drinks and empty bottles scattered across the wooden floorboards, he found her behind the bar, and he smiled for the first time since Enjolras had stormed out, but even now he knew his smile was hollow and empty—chasing the hopes of happiness but not actually expecting to find it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why this chapter took me so long to write (actually that's a lie, I 500% know it's because of school) and it's also kinda short but c'est la vie.   
> OH YEAH AND MORE FAMILIAR FACES!

_You’re in ruins._

 

He didn’t want a drink, or at least that’s what he tried to tell himself, but he needed to try and find her—just to see her—so R walked in, scanning the crowd of drunks, searching for her face. Gliding gracefully over spilled drinks and empty bottles scattered across the wooden floorboards, he found her behind the bar, and he smiled for the first time since Enjolras had stormed out, but even now he knew his smile was hollow and empty—chasing the hopes of happiness but not actually expecting to find it.

“Hey there,” he said, sliding into a seat facing Musichetta, who was currently wiping down the counter, her wild ring of hairs falling across her facing.

“What can I get for--” she looked up and her sentence was immediately cut off upon seeing him. “Grantaire,” she smiled reaching across the counter to pull him into a hug, each holding the other as tight as they could. After a minute she pulled away, whispering, “I can’t believe you’re alive. I never thought I’d see you again. Do you know if anyone else--” her voice faltered, breaking on a small glimpse of hope as her deep brown eyes traced his face, the laugh lines that were usually there now dead to the world.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire nodded. “But we’re it,” he said with a shiver, unable to shake the memory of Joly’s dead body starring lifelessly back at him. He took a deep breath before continuing, “Bossuet, Joly, they, they were, I mean,” R stumbled not know what he even wanted to try to tell her. What could he say to her _—what should he say to her?_

“I had to clean their blood off the streets, you know,” Musichetta whispered with a shudder, trying to keep up a smile as tears started forming in her eyes. “I was paid to wash away the last marks the men I loved had left on this world.”

Grantaire reached his hand over the table, holding hers in his, nodding in encouragement, or maybe understanding—even he wasn’t sure anymore.

She continued on, each word coming out faster and faster—afraid that if she stopped she’d never be able to start again. “Joly and I, we were going to get married—we hadn’t told anyone—well, aside Bossuet, but he was always going to be there with us, every step of the way. All of us were going to live together. We were going to be happy—but instead I got to clean their blood off the streets."

Grantaire squeezed her hand, hoping it could say everything he couldn’t put into words.

“So anyway,” Musichetta said after a few minutes, taking a deep shaking breath, and pulling herself back up to her full height. “Enough about me. How are you doing?” she asked with a shaking voice, lightly placing her other hand on top of his.

“I think I could use a drink,” he whispered, staring down at the hand wrapped around his. "But mostly, I think I just needed a friend to talk to."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway, hope you liked it and I'll try to actually post the next chapter in a timely manner next time!


	13. 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do you want Parnasse?”   
> “Currently? To judge your fashion choices,” he said, casually leaning against the wall behind him, biting his lip as his eyes traced over Enjolras, a disgusted look on his face. “Now most of the time wearing a bright red jacket is a sin and generally makes me want to stab the wearer, but I honestly think red is the only color that suits you.”  
> “Sometimes I think that too,” Enjolras agreed with a bitter laugh, but he wasn't thinking about his fashion choices as his eyes drifted over Rue Rambuteau, still catching left over flecks of scarlet caught in the cracks of the paving stones. He looked up to see Montparnasse smiling at him—coldly, maliciously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finals are done (finally) so here's the next installment!  
> Also yay another familiar face...

_One, twenty-one guns,_

_Lay down your arms,_

_Give up the fight._

 

Wandering the back allies of Paris, using street lamps as stars to guide his course, he was still thinking about what that old man had told him on the bridge.

_You’d be surprised at the forgiveness humans are capable of._

But what he'd done--all he'd said to Grantaire--could he really be forgiven?

Enjolras hated to admit it, but a small part of him wanted to believe it--believe that maybe he could be forgiven, believe that R could forgive him, believe that he would someday be able to forgive himself.

_You’re incapable of believing, of thinking, of wanting, of living, and of dying._

But his words to R kept repeating in his head, like the refrain to a song he didn’t want to know.

“I’m such an idiot,” he muttered to himself, standing there, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I hope you weren’t looking for someone to contradict you.”

His eyes shot open at the voice, startled, only to find a man shrouded in shadows, wearing a black suit with a red rose tucked into his breast pocket. He stood there, leaning against the wall as he caught the knife he flipped through the air repeatedly.

“What do you want Parnasse?” Enjolras asked in what he hoped sounded like an irritated voice, trying to regain control of his nerves.

“Currently? To judge your fashion choices,” he said, casually leaning against the wall behind him, biting his lip as his eyes traced over Enjolras, a disgusted look on his face. “Now most of the time wearing a bright red jacket is a sin and generally makes me want to stab the wearer, but I honestly think red is the only color that suits you.”

“Sometimes I think that too,” Enjolras agreed with a bitter laugh, but he wasn't thinking about his fashion choices as his eyes drifted over Rue Rambuteau, still catching left over flecks of scarlet caught in the cracks of the paving stones. He looked up to see Montparnasse smiling at him—coldly, maliciously.

The cruel smile never left his face as he told Enjolras, “you’re just like me, now.”

Enjolras took half a step back, frowning and defensive as he clenched his hands into a fist, and said, “I am nothing like you.”

“Last I checked, you also killed people.”

“It was for a better world,” Enjolras exclaimed, incredulous.

He rolled his eyes at the revolutionary. “Yeah, well, while you were off viewing the world in black and white, the rest of us were living in all of the shades in between.”

“We had morals,” Enjolras insisted, wrinkling his nose as he looked Parnasse over. “You kill to keep your vanity perfectly intact.”

“ _You_ had _morals?_ ” There was a deadly look in his eyes, and despite his soft, gentile features and charming air, Enjolras could see where he got a reputation for being a terrible young man. “Don’t you dare tell me you had morals. There was a kid on that barricade—Gavroche Thenardier. He was my friend, and you killed him.”

Those words hit Enjolras like bullets all over again. “I want you to know that I did everything in my power to keep him from the barricade, but you and I both know nothing would have stopped him from being there.”

At that moment, two boys, they couldn't have been older than seven, dirt streaked across their faces, their clothing in taters, ran up behind Montparnasse, hiding behind his legs to avoid Enjolras's gaze.

"Parnasse," one of the boys whispered, eyes wide and distrustful of Enjolras.

"It’s ok," Parnasse whispered in a soft, comforting voice. “Here, you two must be hungry,” he said, producing two pieces of bread from his pocket and carefully crouching down until he was eye level with the two street gamins covered in soot, gently placing a piece of bread into each of their hands. He stood up, watching with a smile as they devoured the bread before him, bending over slightly to ruffle their hair.

"You've been taking care of them," Enjolras said slowly, surprised.

“They were Gav’s little brothers,” he said, watching as the two boys ran off back into the darkness, standing there, frozen, even after they had vanished from sight. “Lived with him… relied on him…”

Enjolras put his hand on Montparnasse’s shoulder, startling Montparnasse out of his trance as he told him, “I really did try to keep him from the barricade.” He nodded, almost smiling.

“With Gav, I’m sure that went really well.”

“About as well as you’d expect,” Enjolras smiled. “Especially when I told him he couldn’t have a gun.”

“Oh, I bet he loved that.”

Enjolras laughed, remembering the tiny boy threatening him with hands on his hips. “I think his exact words were ‘fine, I guess I’ll just have to take yours when you die,’ or something like that.”

Montparnasse laughed, but it wasn’t long before his eyes began to sparkle. "Gav was a friend of mine--well, as much of a friend someone in my business can have," he said with a sad smile. "I saw his body among the others I was combing through on the barricade--oh, don't give me that look," he said, as Enjolras tried to control the flash of anger that passed through him--thinking of thieves combing through his friends' bodies like their death meant nothing but a chance for riches. "Anyway," Parnasse continued, "I saw his body there, and after I left the barricade I saw those two," he jerked his head towards where the two boys had disappeared, "starving, and I thought, well, I couldn't just leave them on their own. It was the least I could do for Gav,” he finished, trailing off.

“Here,” Enjolras said, reaching into his pocket to grab the small amount of money the man on the bridge had slipped into R’s notebook. “Take this and keep them fed. There will still be children begging on the streets—just make sure it isn’t these two. For Gavroche.”

Montparnasse just met his eyes and nodded, slipping away into the night after those two.

Finding a sheltered area, Enj curled himself into a ball, shivering, and decided that tomorrow he would go back to R and beg him to forgive him for everything—would beg for a forgiveness he knew he didn’t deserve.

He woke the next morning warmer, to find a new red coat had been draped over his sleeping body like blanket sometime during the night. Inside one of the pockets was a crumpled note, in messy handwriting:

_Get a better fashion taste._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have around a week before I start my summer semester (yay college...), so I'm hoping to finish as many chapters as possible in that time.  
> Anyway, thanks for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked the first chapter and thanks for reading


End file.
